


Bizarre World aka A Study in which Nothing Makes Sense Anymore

by am1thirteen



Series: Boffin Anderson and Confirmed Bachelor Mycroft Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consulting Detective Anderson, Crack, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am1thirteen/pseuds/am1thirteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for: We need something lighthearted. Let’s write a bizarre AU where everyone traded places, shall we? But try to be as surprising as possible. No easy mirror changes.<br/>Hint: Consulting Detective Anderson</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bizarre World aka A Study in which Nothing Makes Sense Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for: We need something lighthearted. Let’s write a bizarre AU where everyone traded places, shall we? But try to be as surprising as possible. No easy mirror changes. (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=82241685#t82241685)  
> Basically I adore the prompter's idea, but I'm switching Anderson and Sally because... I just want to write Anderson the consulting detective, okay. Clearly I'm out of my mind because I don't even know Anderson's full name.  
> Not beta-ed. I own nothing. I wrote this because I could no longer procrastinate on tumblr.

Sergeant Sebastian Moran looked like he was going to lurch as he caught the sight of the man with billowing long coat stepping out of the taxi in front of the crime scene. Before he could open his mouth for a snide greeting, another man limped out of the car and followed to follow the consulting detective. What the fuck? It wasn't enough that the man kept coming to contaminate their crime scene every so often, now he had to bring someone along too? Although admittedly the new face seemed a lot less of an obtuse.

 

"Hello, freak." Moran smiled as he took a step forward (to block their way, not at all welcoming).

 

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Holmes," Consulting Detective Anderson said quickly, rushing to cross the police line only to get himself bodily blocked by the towering sergeant.

 

"Why?"

 

"I was invited."

 

"Why?"

 

Anderson's face hardened at the taunt. "I think he wants me to take a look."

 

The sergeant held his stare, "You know what I think, don't you?"

 

"Always, Seb." The consulting detective growled back, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

 

Moran raised an eyebrow, visibly rattled, "I don't... well, who is this?"

 

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Mycroft Holmes, unrelated in any way to DI Holmes. Doctor Holmes, Sergeant Sebastian Moran. Old friend." Anderson gestured to his companion, who was just regarding both of them dubiously.

 

"A colleague, how do you get a colleague?" Moran sneered, turning to the newcomer, "Did he follow you home?"

 

Mycroft gave out a long-suffering sigh as he gave his cane-slash-umbrella an elegant twirl, "I told you I wasn't suited for legwork. I'll just wait at that cake shop around the corner."

 

"No," Anderson insisted. He stumbled gracelessly as he prepared himself to push Moran away only to find the man stepping to the side. Moran and Mycroft exchanged a smirk as Moran informed DI Holmes of Anderson's arrival.

 

"Freak's here. Bringing him in."

 

XXX

 

Mycroft did a quick scan of their surroundings as his new flatmate-to-be did the same thing, only with more dramatic, obvious gait. He had heard a lot about the recent serial suicides that had been occurring of late. The case was mildly interesting as all of the victims had taken the same poison to kill themselves, giving away signs of foul play, except that there was no evidence whatsoever that someone had made them do it.

 

"Brilliant! Four serial suicides in a row and a note! It's Christmas!" Anderson had exclaimed loudly earlier shortly after DI Holmes had stopped by the flat to invite him to the crime scene. Mr. Hope, the landlord had just been offering him biscuits when Anderson had abruptly returned and asked him to come along.

 

"I'd rather not," he had told the consulting detective after swallowing a mouthful of custard cream biscuit.

 

"But you are a doctor. An army doctor."

 

"Which is precisely why I aim to leisurely enjoy my early retirement. I have seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths. Far too much. Enough for a lifetime."

 

"Want to see some more?" Anderson had drawled in what he must have perceived a seductive purr.

 

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at him, titling his head back and wondered how the hell this ostentatious idiot could possibly be of any help to the police (DI Holmes had seemed to be a very bright man). Then his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He had said yes.

 

"Ah, Molly, here we are again."

 

Mycroft looked up to see a skittish-looking brunette in forensic team uniform walking out of the building. Her eyes grew wide as she caught the sight of Anderson striding to her direction.

 

"Anderson," she replied nervously, clutching on her clipboard, "Please wear gloves and don't fall on the dead body this time. I don't want my crime scene contaminated. Again."

 

"Ha! You didn't have to tell me that!" Anderson flaunted his gloved hands in front of her face with a winning smirk, "Is Toby back home yet? How long has it been since he ran away?"

 

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Molly glared at him.

 

"Your shirt told me that. It looks crisp like it was freshly laundered, but there is no fur on it. You usually hug Toby at least once before you go to work, if he was there in the morning, there would have been some fur on your shirt, but there isn't. Ergo, he is currently missing." Anderson ended his deduction with a rather disturbing 'now you see that I'm brilliant' wink at Mycroft's direction.

 

Molly looked entirely unimpressed. "This shirt is three-day old. I haven't had a chance to go home thanks to this case. Also I'm always careful to not let Toby's fur on my work clothes. You wouldn't have embarrassed yourself if you could just observe, the way Sherlock does. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to file the report."

 

Mycroft ignored Anderson's livid expression as he limped past him and entered the building.

 

"Doesn't change the fact that I correctly deduced the missing cat." Anderson tried to explain as he caught up to him, still looking upset.

 

"Hmm," Mycroft regarded him, aloof.

 

"I correctly deduced you too when we first met."

 

"Why yes, I do recall how you correctly deduced that I was an army doctor from the way I smell."

 

"Yes! Of course you're an army doctor! You smelled like tiramisu! There's this other army doctor I know, my gran's associate, he often dropped by our family house smelling like tiramisu."

 

Mycroft turned to him with a curious smirk, "If I had just chosen apple crumble for breakfast instead, God forbid, what would you have deduced of me?"

 

Anderson huffed out a haughty laugh, "You would still smell like tiramisu, obviously. It is how my superior brain perceive the information. Mysterious isn't it. You can't tell me you're not thrilled."

 

"So all army doctors smell like tiramisu," Mycroft didn't even bother to mask his sarcasm, "What a predicament. All the money I have blown on cologne, all in vain."

 

"Oh don't be silly," Anderson comforted him, "I promise you the tiramisu can only be smelled by me. It's all my brain, my hard drive. My nose, like the rest of my body is merely transport. In fact, I haven't been able to smell the tiramisu on you for some time now. Possibly because I inadvertently deleted it to store new data for this intriguing case."

 

Mycroft was still in the process of recovering himself after being referred as 'silly' when DI Sherlock Holmes called for them from the inner room.

 

"You'll need to wear one of these," he handed them a couple of blue overalls and paper shoes.

 

"Aren't you going to put on yours?" Anderson asked the inspector, who was wearing similar long coat and dark blue scarf, only to be dismissed with a wave of hand.

 

XXX

 

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her cards. We are running them now for contact details." DI Holmes was practically skipping his way up the stairs like a lanky ball of energy, ignoring Mycroft's heated glare as he tried to catch up. "Hasn't been there long. Some kids found her."

 

The way Sherlock Holmes opened the door to the room where the dead body lay, you would have thought he was an elementary student, excited to show off the science project he had been working on all summer.

 

"Interesting," Anderson murmured, pressing a finger on his chin, "Before I start, I should warn you lot that I need room, and quiet. Don't speak, don't think, don't breathe, don't be distracting."

 

"Right, yes, of course," Sherlock threw him one big tampered smile before taking a broad step back.

 

Mycroft watched with disdain as Anderson went ahead and possibly butchered every possible evidence they could have collected from the scene. The detective stepped on the dead woman's hand a few times without noticing, left a rather significant dust stain on the pink coat, and sneezed on the woman's hair. By the time Anderson accidentally kicked the woman's pink heel off and clumsily put it back on, Mycroft had quietly finished his own observation and returned to fiddling with the handle of his umbrella.

 

"Hmm... yes, yes, obviously," Anderson kept murmuring to himself, "Interesting. Such intrigue. I love this."

 

"Don't bother telling me whether it's decent or not. I love my work, I have nothing against this dead woman." Anderson interrupted brazenly as Sherlock opened his mouth.

 

"Who cares about decent?" The DI looked at him incredulously, "I was just about to ask you if you've found something of importance. A breakthrough."

 

"Why yes, of course," Anderson smirked as he rose from his crouching position, gesturing to the dying message grandly, "Rache. It's German for revenge."

 

"So you're saying she's German."

 

"No, of course she's not. She was coming from out of town, though, intending to spend the night before returning home to Cardiff. Married for 10 years, unhappily. So far so obvious."

 

That successfully got Mycroft to look up from being fatally bored. If the small upward tug on Sherlock's lips was any indication, it was apparently something he was expecting.

 

"Brilliantly deduced. And how so if I may ask?" 

 

"Her clothes are wet. Doesn't seem like the crazy type who would throw her belongings away to jump in to fountains, so must be the rain then. I looked up all complains about storm or rain on twitter, filtered out users without 'pink' on the name, and voila!" The consulting detective triumphantly whipped out his phone for everyone to see the profile page of @JenniePink under the name of Jennifer Wilson. "She tweeted about everything. Husband seems to be passive and boorish. And oh! She had croissant for breakfast this morning."

 

"Wonderful. If she's about to stay one night, one can presume she has a suitcase then." Sherlock looked absolutely giddy with enthusiasm, "And of course it will be pink."

 

"Obviously," Anderson snorted.

 

"You heard the man! Moran!" Sherlock immediately bounced out of the door and shouted all the way downstairs, "Anderson has deduced that the victim has planted her suitcase and phone on the murderer! Launch a search team to check the surrounding areas for a small pink suitcase, make sure to cover streets large enough for a car and deserted enough to let someone dispose of it without being seen!"

 

Mycroft watched the whole exchange in silent confound. So far all he could construe was that the consulting detective was bizarrely lucky for getting all the correct conclusions for all the wrong reasons. But how?

 

"How about the dying message? Got anything?" Asked the DI as he marched back inside, eyes glued on his phone.

 

"Not yet, but I'm sure I'll come up with something soon. After all, my brain is like an engine, it never rests, spinning out of control. Sometimes I wish I could turn it off for the night," Anderson cleared his throat, cheeks puffed with pride. "Maybe Doctor Holmes here can take a closer look at the physical evidence. Get a fresh perspective."

 

Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh before limping forward, kneeling next to the body. After making sure that Anderson was out of the room (to taunt Molly with his brilliant deduction), he rose back up and frowned at DI Sherlock Holmes, who still looked engrossed in his texting.

 

"You knew about all those." He started, noting the brief twitch of the inspector's finger. Surprise. "You don't need Anderson at all. You've known about all the facts before you invited him in to repeat them for you."

 

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock replied with a loop-sided grin, "Go on. Impress me."

 

"You knew she came from Cardiff because her umbrella was dry. Her coat is damp from the rain but she didn't use the umbrella, the wind was too strong for her to use it. No rain anywhere in London in the last few hours. She couldn't have travelled for more than two or three hours because it's still damp. Cardiff is the only possible place where there was heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of the travel time."

 

"I know that she's not happily married because her ring is dirty on the outside, clean on the inside. State of her marriage, right there. I assume she's here to meet a lover. A serial adulterer." Sherlock continued as he slipped the phone back in his coat pocket, turning to smirk at the doctor, "I also worked out the suitcase earlier because I couldn't find her phone. She was a smart woman. She planted the phone on her murderer. She's cleverer than Anderson and she's dead. I am well aware of the irony."

 

"You are brilliant. A proper genius, I imagine. Why would you need Anderson to confirm your deductions?" Mycroft titled his head, curious. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that no matter how bizarre his reasoning is, he always comes to the right conclusion?"

 

"You're right, I don't really need his deductions. Rather, I need to be able to say that he said it. You see, he has a concerned party up there who will gladly bend every rule to accommodate his, and in turn, my needs. Ever since he started coming to my crime scene, I never have to explain any peculiar expense or damage compensation on my report. All I have to do is including him in the investigation. It's brilliant." The Inspector explained cheerfully, tugging on the collar of his coat, "And it certainly doesn't hurt that the man comes with the best tea in England. And the most magnificent arse too."

 

"I meant the 'concerned party', not Anderson," Sherlock quickly amended at Mycroft's appalled look. "I imagine he'd want to see you very soon."

 

With the last sentence, DI Holmes excused himself and bounded down the stairs.

 

XXX

 

Mycroft ignored Moran's polite inquiry if he was going to leave without Anderson as they passed each other by across the police line. So far this had been a collosal waste of time. He reckoned he would just catch a taxi, stopped by for donuts and headed back to his old flat. It took him six tries before a sleek black car stopped in front of him. The door opened to reveal a beautiful black-haired woman in a white smart dress sitting on the other side of the backseat. She introduced herself as Irene, recited his address and told him with a low, posh voice that she would give him a free ride (while winking suggestively at the implication).

 

"The concerned party sent you," the doctor stated calmly, "Did he tell you what he was going to do if I were to refuse the ride?"

 

"Nothing at all," Irene replied with a throaty chuckle, "You concerns are uncalled for. I am under strict order not to whip a guest."

 

XXX

 

"Surprise!"

 

A cheery voice greeted him as Mycroft as he turned on the lamp. Mycroft froze by the door  for a moment, trying to come up with an appropriate response when facing a strange short blond man in striped jumper who was apparently... (on Mycroft's old desk which had been rearranged to the center of the room, covered with pristine white tablecloth: a victorian-style teapot, couple of similarly-themed cups, sugar on an elegant porcelaine container, milk in a glass pot, and couple of three-layered mix pastries on the side) throwing a midnight tea-time party in his flat.

 

"Bloody hell. Either you are very good at masking your expression, or..." The blond man's smile faded in an instant, "Sherlock told you about me, didn't he. That insufferable git."

 

"A little bit of both, actually." Mycroft cleared his throat and put down his umbrella. "I will only start this conversation after you hand me that England's best tea blend. Couple of scones would be lovely. I'll pass on the magnificent arse."

 

XXX

 

"So, Doctor Holmes," the blond man started, putting down his cup, which was possibly the most expensive thing that ever touched the humble desk. "What is your connection to Anderson?"

 

"Frankly, there's not one. I barely know him, as we were just introduced yesterday." Mycroft replied with a pleased smile. "What did you expect me to say?"

 

"I don't know. As you just mentioned, you barely knew him yet you readily followed him to the crime scene. This just seems to be progressing a little too fast, doesn't it."

 

"You are reading too much into it. I was only there to test a theory."

 

The blond man leaned forward with a curious smile, "And the theory would be..."

 

"If Anderson was exceptionally obtuse or brilliant." Mycroft eyed the untouched batch of macaroons across the table, "As it turns out, he isn't any of them. He is merely an ordinary man with extraordinary luck."

 

"I see," the blond man folded his hands under his chin, "Well I think he is absolutely brilliant, in an unconventional way."

 

"Humph," the doctor snorted, "I'm sorry for not falling for his... special brand of charm."

 

The blond man hummed under his breath, staring at Mycroft contemplatively before starting to speak again, "If I give you permission to speak freely, what would you tell me about your honest impressions of him I wonder."

 

"If such hypothetical event occurs, I will tell you that your brother is a pompous, ostentatious chowderhead who shall remain content being in love with himself when nobody else does." Mycroft picked up his cup, immensely pleased at the surprise that was briefly registered on the other man's face.

 

The blond man licked his lips, chuckling to himself, "I see that you're not afraid of me."

 

Mycroft eyed his jumper significantly before giving him the 'surely you can't be that dim' look.

 

"Did I tell you that he was my brother?"

 

"You don't have to. You obviously care for him deeply; takes special kind of love to care for such a... unique character. Anderson seems to be straight and you might or might not be involved with the Inspector, so that rules out romantic love. It is family love, then. You don't seem old enough to be his father."

 

The short man's eyes widened just a fraction before he schooled his expression back to neutral. "You're sure you're not related to DI Holmes?"

 

Mycroft threw him another look before reaching for the macaroon. Then suddenly his phone chimed.

 

"It's Anderson, isn't it." The blond man looked amused. "Requesting your assistance, I presume."

 

"Not anymore, no." Mycroft assured him, deleting the message swiftly with one hand. "I'm not one for legwork, as only one of mine is properly functional. We might share the flat, but I shall refrain from following him around the crime scene."

 

"Or maybe you shall."

 

"I wouldn't be so sure."

 

The phone chimed again. Mycroft held it contemplatively, watching every implied expressions in the blond man's smallest gestures. No small amount of confidence was found there.

 

"I'm pretty sure you will, eventually. But I can see that you are a careful man. You wouldn't  open yourself up to risk of imperilment for thrill's sake. I take it that you need some... incentives."

 

Before Mycroft could utter something out, the phone chimed again. Each new chime seemed to heighten in desperation.

 

"I wouldn't go as far as to refer the experience as 'imperilment'..."

 

"Oh but you know it could be." The blond man leaned back, looking right at home with biscuit crumbles on his fuzzy jumper. "You see, Anderson doesn't merely come, break out a speech and leave the rest to the police. Sometimes he'll go as far as pursuing the clues himself, putting himself directly under the light."

 

"I've met him. I can imagine how many 'friends' he has."

 

"He needs you, Doctor Holmes," The blond man said solemnly, "It's long overdue for him to have someone to watch his back."

 

Mycroft almost snorted, "Of all people, you've decided to trust me. How fascinating."

 

The man in the jumper held his stare for a moment before tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. Not a second later, Irene entered the room and handed him a stacked-looking envelope.

 

"I care for Anderson, I really do. Unfortunately our relationship has always been on the complicated side. I'll appreciate your discretion upon this arrangement." The blond man left the envelope on the desk before rising up to his feet, preparing to leave. Irene whispered something to her wrist, and it apparently summoned a dozen men in black suit in to the far too cramped flat. Mycroft expected the men to carry the short blond man on some sort of pedestal for a grand exit, but it turned out they were just there to clean up after the tea party. It took them precisely three minutes, down the seconds, to return Mycroft's humble flat to its former condition.

 

"What do you want in return for the 'incentive'?" Mycroft asked before the blond man exited the room, eyeing the envelope.

 

"Don't worry, you don't need to write some bloody monthly reports or anything," he replied with a mysterious smile and closed the door with a wink.

 

Mycroft's phone chimed again.

 

XXX

 

An hour later, Mycroft found himself back in front of 221b Baker St. And apparently, so was the entire Scotland Yard, if the staggering number of police cars parked there was any indication. A taxi passed him by as he limped towards the front door to ring the bell. Mr. Hope opened it for him, looking somewhat distressed.

 

"Ah Doctor Holmes, here to see Anderson too?"

 

"I hope I didn't intrude on anything important, Mr. Hope," Mycroft nodded politely, "Did something happen?"

 

"Yes, but I'm not sure what exactly happened. I just hope Anderson isn't in some sort of trouble. They're all upstairs. Come on in."

 

XXX

 

"He finally got to you, didn't he," Sherlock scrunched up his face in distaste the moment Mycroft appeared in to view, "You've gained like two pounds since last time I saw you. That's what happens when you attend one of his tea parties."

 

Mycroft ignored the jab, observing the amazing state of disarray the normally tidy flat was. Every present officer (including Molly) seemed to be spread around every corner, searching for something. Anderson was nowhere to be found.

 

"Freak went downstairs just a few minutes ago," Sergeant Moran supplied helpfully, "I thought he was going to see if you've arrived. Been complaining about your absence."

 

Mycroft nodded absently, eyes glued on the open pink suitcase on the armchair.

 

"Why did you bring the dead woman's suitcase here?"

 

"The phone," Sherlock drawled, looking agitated, "We tracked it down using her email address on the internet, dying message was the name of her stillborn daughter which also happened to be the password for all of her online accounts. Anyhow, it's right here. 221 Baker Street. We have been turning the place upside down but it's nowhere to be found. GOD it's so frustrating!"

 

Mycroft turned back downstairs to find Mr. Hope hovering at the stairs.

 

"Mr. Hope, did you see Anderson going down here?"

 

"He went downstairs for a while earlier. There was this cabbie insisting that someone from this address ordered a taxi. I asked everyone but they all ignored me and kept arguing." Mr. Hope explained, "I thought he was just going to tell the taxi off and returned upstairs."

 

It didn't take long (it never did) for the doctor to put the pieces together at the revelation. Mycroft pressed a hand on his face in sheer frustration before limping back upstairs to announce the kidnapping case of Consulting Detective Anderson.

 

XXX

 

"A cabbie. Of course, of course. Can't believe it slipped my mind," Sherlock murmured to himself as he drove, only half-listening to Moran's instructions as the sergeant monitored the movement of the tracker on the woman's phone. "Who would you trust even though you don't know them. Who roams around London undetected. Of course it's a cabbie. It's brilliant. The victims weren't kidnapped off the street. They entered the car on their own will, and nobody would bat an eye."

 

Mycroft tapped his finger against the handle of his umbrella, impatient. The phone's battery could only last for several hours, especially when it kept emitting signal to broadcast its whereabouts. There was a good chance it would die out before they reached their destination. The serial killer seemed to be heading to the outskirts of the city to find another abandoned building. 

 

"I wonder what he told them to make them take the poison."

 

"They did it at gunpoint, I imagine." Moran suggested, balancing the laptop on his thigh.

 

"No, no. That wouldn't be enough. He said something to them, and they killed themselves." Sherlock huffed, "Such exquisite experience and it will be wasted on Anderson."

 

XXX

 

About half an hour later, they arrived in front of two identical-looking old buildings. Moran did a quick recheck before confirming that it was the right address. Anderson and the killer were inside one of the buildings. There was no time to waste, they had to split up. Sherlock basically bounced away inside one of the buildings the moment they came to the decision, but Moran had enough sense to stop Mycroft from following the Inspector.

 

"You are a civilian. I can't possibly let you get dragged in to this matter any further." He said apologetically, "I have informed the others of our whereabouts. They should start arriving in a few minutes. In the meantime, please wait inside the car."

 

Mycroft did so for exactly one minute before trailing after Sherlock. His black umbrella sat against the door on the backseat, unassuming.

 

XXX

 

"You are ill. Fatally so." Anderson wheezed out, fighting to keep the tough mask on as the woman in front of him; a black woman, with short black hair and strong exterior, kept her gun pointed at him, with stern expression adorning her face. "How long do you have? A month? Two months?"

 

"Excellent Mister Anderson," she replied, "I can see that you live up to your reputation now. Before I was under the impression of capturing the wrong person."

 

"Hardly," The consulting detective growled, offended. "There's no one else like me."

 

"I have to say that I agree," The woman calmly regarded him, her strong grip on the gun never faltered, "Seeing that you are a logical person, surely you can pick out which of these presented situations are more logical to you."

 

"One, you play the game, and there's a fifty-fifty chance that you would survive. Two, you don't play the game and I shoot you."

 

"I'm playing no game with a killer," Anderson said, his forehead slick with cold sweat. "If you're going to shoot, go ahead and do it."

 

A flick of hesitation flashed in the woman's expression.

 

"Go ahead, shoot me!" Anderson braved a step forward, "I am an obstacle in your grand plan! If you don't end this right now, I will be the one who makes sure you spend the rest of your miserable short life behind the bar!"

 

"Take the pill, Mister Anderson," she repeated, "Don't you want to play the game? You could have won. Or you could find out more about how I beat and outlived four people. Aren't you curious?"

 

"All I care about is stopping you," he took another step forward, gaining his momentum, "I don't see how my death is going to help accomplish that. You've got the police out of their depths. I was their only hope."

 

"Oh come on, don't ruin this, Mister Anderson," the woman laughed bitterly, "We're playing an elegant game. Blood spatters would only turn it messy. Your fan wouldn't want me to end it like that."

 

Anderson stopped on his track with an involuntary grin on his face at the implication. "My fan?"

 

"Yes, your fan." The serial killer embelished, "He is quite obsessed with you."

 

The glee left Anderson's face as fast as it came, "Oh, it's a 'he'."

 

"Don't be like that. I heard he was quite good-looking."

 

"Irrelevant."

 

"Fine," the woman waved her gun again as a warning, "Back to your seat. Now."

 

"I told you to shoot me," Anderson frowned, narrowing his eyes critically, "But all you've been doing is distracting me with idle chats. I wonder why." 

 

"I told you I didn't want to disappoint your fan. Now back to your seat and we can renegotiate."

 

"I've got it," The consulting detective sneered, "The gun. It's fake, isn't it."

 

"I assure you this baby is one-hundred percent real," she replied grimly, "Now, don't be difficult Mister Anderson. Don't make me do anything both of us will regret."

 

"I knew it!" Anderson could feel the tension leaving his body, patting himself on the back for another good deduction well done. "You have been telling me to play a game. Well how about you, playing my game instead."

 

"You don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Here's the game. I will try to tackle you down, while you try not to get tackled down. You're welcome to use the gun, or rather, the lighter, to try to stop me."

 

"This is your last warning, Mister Anderson! This gun is quite real!"

 

"It's great that you sound so convincing. You are wasted as a cabbie. You'll make a brilliant actress."

 

A brief moment later, things were moving so fast Anderson could only recall it in a blur. He  remembered being tackled to the ground, a hoarse shouting of 'NOW!!!', and a couple of gunshots. A second later, he opened his eyes to find Mycroft lying next to him, groaning in pain.

 

"Oh God no," Anderson gasped, rising up and moving quickly to pull the man in to his arms, "Mycroft! Mycroft, are you okay? God please be okay!"

 

Another muffled groan was heard, not far from them. Anderson froze as a familiar figure strode past him to approach the serial killer, who was lying on the floor with a large spot of blood on her left shoulder, gasping for breaths. She was dying.

 

"You said Anderson had a fan. Obviously he was the power behind you. I don't know what he offers you to commit all those murders and I don't care. Give me a name," DI Holmes barked, hovering a foot above her open bullet wound, "You don't have a lot of time. Don't make these last moments hurtful. Now tell me! Who is it!"

 

"It's..." She choked out with her dying breath, "Lestrade."

 

XXX

 

Mycroft pulled on his orange blanket sullenly, fighting the urge to throw the awful tea at the next paramedic who dared to even consider taking his shirt off to inspect his practically non-existing injuries. Thanks to Anderson's frantic and loud concerns, there had been quite a few, one had even managed to take his coat off without giving him a chance to explain.

 

"You're sure you okay?" Anderson didn't even give him five minutes to himself, obviously thinking that his presence was a soothing energy to Mycroft's soul.

 

"I'm fine," Mycroft repeated with clenched jaw, "When do you think they will allow us to go home?"

 

"Soon, but DI Holmes asked us to come by tomorrow to take our statements," Anderson replied absently, frowning at something he saw in a distance. "Is that... could it be..."

 

"Hello again, Doctor Holmes," the blond man in striped jumper greeted cheerfully, folding his arms behind back, "Anderson."

 

"John," the name rolled out of the consulting detective like bile, "What do you want this time? I have no time for one of your boring cases."

 

"Why must you think ill of me every time? Sherlock told me you almost died. I just want to make sure that my brother is okay."

 

"God save us all from your meddling prowess. Can I breathe just for one second without you telling me the 'proper' way to do it? Will it kill you inside to know that London will survive without you poking your nose in everyone's life?"

 

John frowned, looking mildly amused rather than upset, "I am well aware of that. I wasn't even in England until this afternoon."

 

"Doctor Holmes, meet my jumper-wearing, all-powerful, tea-addict brother, John Watson. He occupies a minor position in the government but don't let that fool you. If he puts his mind in to it, he can induce wars in exactly twenty different small countries across the world." Anderson spat, crossing his arms, "Anyway, don't pull the cctv trick on me ever again. If I see another camera being deliberately pointed at me again on my way home, I will tell mummy that you've been picking on me."

 

"That won't work. I'm her favourite."

 

"You..." Anderson jabbed a finger at John's direction, face flushed with anger, "You just never let go, don't you. It's always like that. My childhood was hell because you--"

 

XXX

 

After a while, Mycroft stopped walking and sighed in relief after confirming that he was no longer within an earshot of the siblings bickering.

 

"Leaving already?" 

 

He turned around to find a smirking, all too pleased Inspector standing behind him, holding something behind his back.

 

"I think you're forgetting something."

 

Mycroft pressed his lips together as Sherlock offered him his umbrella, pale eyes glinting with humor.

 

"Thank you," he accepted it, half-dazed, alternately switching his gaze between his supposedly bad leg and the umbrella.

 

"I guess in a way, he is good for you after all," the younger man commented with a far too wide grin, before turning around and walking back towards the crowd, emanating smugness from his retreating back. "I recommend coming with Anderson to the crime scene next time! Does wonders to your waistline!"

 

 

END


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